


The Art of Interpretation

by electricblueninja



Series: Love is a verb [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas POV, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28420236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Love is a verb [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071395
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	The Art of Interpretation

This balance between us is a fragile thing. It has taken many years of learning. Learning to read the lines on his face. The way a line at the corner of his lips is a warning sign of anger or disapproval, while one particular crease in his forehead is, rather than anger, a sign that he feels vulnerable, but is prepared to be comforted. 

I have learned to watch his eyes for the emotions that he thinks he masks so cleverly, as well as the ones he lets show. 

I have practised reading his body language, enough to know that there is a difference, albeit minute, between the way he hunches because he is annoyed, and the way he hunches because he feels nervous and uncomfortable.

He is currently doing the latter. It is only a small change in his posture, but his shoulders have tipped forward and his hips have canted: an instinctive movement humans do in order to protect their soft stomachs and essential systems. 

He wants to feel safe, and I have learned that for Dean, safety often simply means clear directions. My stomach and abdomen are tight with excitement, excitement which pools as a heavy weight in my balls, but I rein in my enthusiasm enough to speak sternly and firmly.

"Take off your clothes and come here, Dean."

There. The tension in him changes. He straightens up, reassured by the desire in my voice and the clear directive. His eyes snap back to mine, and I can see the gooseflesh creeping over his forearms.

I want to say more, but I know that I need to be careful. The last thing I want to do is remind him of the _other_ people who have barked orders at him. His father, for instance. 

Instead, I just let my knees fall open, relax into the couch, and wait.

After a moment's hesitation, Dean complies. His shirt hits the floor, and moments later his jeans and shorts follow.

He is breathtaking. His body is thick, and heavy with muscle, but he is regal in the way he carries his weight. I let my eyes trail up and down each sinewy limb, and every inch of skin, savouring every scar and imperfection.

He is everything that is beautiful about humanity, but more importantly, he is Dean Winchester, and he stands naked before me. He is my anchor to this world, and he has unintentionally forced me to understand the concrete nature of love. Not the abstracted version, but real love. Love expressed in a breath; a moment's eye contact; a hand on the shoulder; a kiss; a word.

Right now, that word is "Um", which he says as he pads his way over to the bedside table, bending slightly to open a drawer. I admire the contours of his form, and I wish it had taken him longer to find what he was looking for, but he quickly succeeds and makes his way back to me, lubricant in hand. He tosses it to me from a few feet away.

"It's flavoured," I observe, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut _up_ , Cas. It was the _only_ option at the Gas'n'Sip, okay? Just put it on."

I smirk at him. "I'd rather you did it."

He glares at me, but it's just embarrassment--there's no real aggression in his eyes.

"Fine," he says, coming close enough to snatch it back from my hand. "Fine, _I'll_ do it."

He snaps the seal, uncaps it, and lets the lube ooze, thick and glistening, into his palm. Sets the tube aside and reaches for me, his skin warm under the cool liquid. He tightens his grip into a loose fist, and lets his hand rise and fall around me, the heavy silence filled by the inelegant but erotic sound of the viscous gel as it is trapped between our skin.

"Enough, I think," I murmur. I am pulsing in his hand, and I do not want this to be over before it even starts. "Come here, Dean."

He looks abashed, but he obeys, resting his now-sticky hand on my shoulder to balance himself as he straddles my thighs. He settles over me, and my throbbing erection sits neatly between his muscular glutes. The way they squeeze me lightly as he adjusts his weight is indecently pleasurable. I hear a voice rumble appreciatively, but it takes a few moments before I realise that the sound is me.

Dean has closed his eyes. He leans back slightly, rocks gently against me, and that involuntary rumble emerges from my throat again.

His breath hitches; fingers tightening on my shoulders as he opens his eyes to look at me. They are heavy-lidded, but I already knew he was aroused; he is half-hard, and brushing against my stomach.

"I don't know how to do this, Cas."

"You need to be relaxed, Dean."

"I don't...I..."

I've still got my arms spread over the back of the sofa, but I shift them now, to take his face in my hands again and press a chaste kiss to his mouth.

"Let me."

His answer is another kiss--this one much less chaste than the one I gave him. This kiss is messy and wet and demanding. He can't say that little word, 'Yes', with his voice, but he says it clear enough with his tongue.

I pull out of the kiss to catch my breath, but I do not move my face. I breath in his every exhale; we are still so close our lips almost touch. I reach unseeingly for the lube, and crack it open one-handedly, slipping my other arm between our bodies to squirt copious amounts of the stuff onto my fingers. Dean obediently rises up onto his knees as I reach back around his body. My fingers slide wetly over the inner edge of one ass cheek, and I begin with a few long, slippery strokes, downwards and inwards, until I gently locate that tight ring of muscle, and begin to draw soft, coaxing circles around it with my fingertips.

Dean's heartrate is already elevated. He is breathing heavily, his forehead pressing against mine, his lips parted and his eyes closed.

I do not need to be experienced in these matters to be able to work out what Dean likes, or what his body wants. I continue stroking him, but I begin to use only one fingertip, and I apply a little more pressure. I allow the circles to become smaller and more insistent, until his twitching hole invites me in, and I slip inside, up to the first knuckle.

He pulls his head back and exhales sharply, his brow furrowing a little. He groans; a low, desperate sound. I am momentarily concerned, but as he repeats the sound I feel the tight pressure on my finger easing, and I slip another knuckle's depth into him--because of _him_ , not because of me.

It is a fascinating sensation. His body grips me tight and _pulls_ at me. 

I hold still for now, letting him adjust, until he lifts himself off, and says, "Another."

He says it like an order, but it's really more like a plea.

I slick my fingers again, and then press two fingers against him. It is smooth and easy, this time; like he's hungry for it. My stomach flutters with desire, like a flock of birds has just taken flight inside me.

I push my fingers in as deep as Dean can comfortably take them, and then twist and curl them as they brush up against his prostate. It is rewarding: his cock throbs and hardens, bouncing against my stomach, and he throws his head back, moaning. " _Cas_ ," he says, in that particular way which is more like prayer than speech; "Cas, _yes_." His fingers bite roughly into my shoulders, and he pushes down into my touch. I have never felt anything like the shudder that courses through him then, and he makes no attempt to control the his volume as he cries out, gasping with a pleasure that makes me ache in unspeakable ways.

I _want_ him. I want to feel that sensation, the way he wraps tight around my fingers, through my cock. I want him to strain against me like he's doing now, but I want to feel it from the inside. I wait, and once I feel the shuddering begin to abate, I withdraw my fingers.

He whines in protest, and I silence him with my mouth--an unspoken promise, followed by the spoken confession: "Dean, I _want_ you. Please."

He gives me a sharp glance, although the cutting effect is dulled by the fact that he is still clinging to me, and the rapid drumming of his heartbeat, too close to my chest to hide.

"How many times you gonna make me tell you to shut up, Cas?"


End file.
